In a single, graceful motion, Blossomforth unrolled her stretching mat and laid it on her living room floor. She stepped onto it, relishing the familiar feel of the mat giving ever so slightly under her hooves, and took a seat in the center.
For a moment, she simply sat, breathing deeply and trying to center herself. Sunlight poured in through the open window, carrying with it the scent of her flower garden just outside. She filled her lungs with the fragrance, then discharged it in a happy exhale, smiling contentedly into her quiet, cozy home.
Then, she started.
For as long as she could remember, Blossomforth had stretched every single day—the result, of course, being the flexibility she was known for among her friends and coworkers. She couldn’t remember why she started the tradition, all those years ago. All she knew was that it relaxed her, and made her body feel more alive. By now, the routine was mostly second-nature, and she went through her various stretches and exercises mostly on autopilot. Hence another one of the tradition’s benefits: It gave her time to think, to ponder and contemplate.
As she planted her hind hooves on the mat and rotated her torso nearly one-hundred and eighty degrees so that she was facing the opposite direction, she decided to have some daffodil alfredo for supper. As she lowered herself into the splits and reached forward along her front leg, she wondered if there were any good movies showing at the Ponyville theatre. And as she raised herself up into a bridge, extending her belly toward the ceiling with all four hooves on the mat beneath her, stretching her back until her spine gave a few satisfying pops, she tried to recall how hectic tomorrow’s weather schedule was supposed to be.
And thoughts of work, as they often did, brought something else to her mind. Or, rather, somepony else.
Him. Thunderlane. Her foalhood friend and longtime crush.
With a sigh, she bent her back further, curling her head underneath her until her chin came to rest on the mat, then lowered herself until she felt her own rump sitting on her head.
Oh, Thunderlane. If only he knew. If only he knew how much Blossomforth thought about him. Dreamed about him. If only he knew how much she imagined him touching her, holding her. Caressing her. And so, so much more. Naughty, depraved things that he would never expect from his sweet and innocent friend.
And maybe he would know, if only Blossomforth had the nerve to tell him.
She rolled out of her extreme backbend and lay flat on the floor, staring at the ceiling. The momentum of her routine was thoroughly shattered by that entire train of thought, and by the warm, tingly feeling between her legs.
Getting turned on during her stretching sessions wasn’t such an uncommon thing—perhaps due to some inherent sensuality in contorting one’s body on the floor. Nor was it entirely unwelcome, for though it was undoubtedly an interruption of her beloved routine, there were, after all, other ways to relax.
And so, with thoughts of Thunderlane still fresh in her mind, her hoof began to wander, inch by inch, down her body and finally between her legs. A sudden inhale through her nostrils accompanied the first contact, and a moan the second. Soon enough, she settled into a rhythm, rubbing herself in slow, steady, circular motions, biting her lip to cut off another moan. Her wings slowly, surely, stiffened against the stretching mat, and her left leg, as per usual, gave tiny twitches.
She closed her eyes and let fantasy wash over her. It was no longer her own hoof between her legs. It was Thunderlane’s. He rubbed and rubbed at her swollen slit, his body poised over her prone form like a predator over his kill. Her other hoof was also his as it ran over her body, from her face, down her belly, across her inner thigh, along the length of her wings.
As the speed of her hoof increased, so did her pleasure, until finally Blossomforth opened her mouth, panting and whimpering into her normal peaceful living room.
In her mind, Thunderlane began to move down her body, positioning himself between her legs and licking her pussy with his strong, broad tongue. She moaned, more because of the thought of being licked than the actual sensation between her legs. Unfortunately, hooves were not exactly designed for masturbation, and even if Blossomforth, like most ponies, could usually make do, it paled in comparison to an actual tongue wriggling through her folds.
With a frustrated huff, she withdrew her hoof and opened her eyes, the fantasy of Thunderlane dispelled like a puff of smoke in the wind.
Her mind drifted to her modest collection of dildos and vibrators, stowed in a small box under her bed. Even they, however, seemed a poor substitute for what she wanted. She was more in the mood for being eaten out than rutted, and there simply wasn’t anything that would properly imitate a real, living tongue.
Oh, what she wouldn’t give to have Thunderlane there. Or anypony, really. As horny as she was, she wasn’t picky. Heck, if she could just eat herself out, she wou—
She bolted upright on the mat. Lowering her eyes, she gave her marehood a curious, appraising look.
What if she could do it herself?
After all her years stretching and contorting, she was the most flexible pony she knew. If anypony could do it, it would be her. To her surprise, she realized she had never tried. In fact, the thought had never even occurred to her at all.
She simply had to try.
Grabbing her thighs for leverage, she took a deep breath, and then expelled it as she curled forward, lowering her head to her nethers. She came to a stop a few inches away from her target, and even sticking her tongue out she couldn’t quite reach.
She sat up again, slightly encouraged despite her failure. She had gotten close enough that she knew it was possible. It was just a matter of logistics. She knew, from her own experience, that the best way to achieve a new position was to utilize one’s body weight, and with most of a pony’s weight concentrated in their lower half, a new approach might just do the trick.
Rolling onto her back, she kicked her hind legs into the air and lowered them to either side of her head, giving her a direct view of her vagina. Reaching up with her forelegs, she grabbed her hips, locking herself in position for another attempt. Already, she was about the same distance from her opening as she’d been before, and this time she had room to breathe. Reaching with her tongue, she was almost surprised to feel it brush against her clit. She jolted, her body instinctively trying to uncurl itself.
With an excited half-giggle, she re-secured her grip on her hips and craned her neck even further, sticking her tongue out as far as it would go until, finally, she felt it brush against her lower lips. She had tasted her juices before, of course, but only off her hoof. Tasting herself directly from the source was different, somehow. Maybe even better. Or perhaps it was just the thrill of accomplishment. Regardless of the explanation, she began licking herself, feeling her folds parting beneath her tongue, the taste and smell of her arousal filling her mind. She barely even noticed herself whimpering and moaning through the fog of pleasure as she began to eat herself out.
Gone were thoughts of Thunderlane. Her pleasure, the focus it took to give that pleasure, and the thrumming excitement of the whole situation, of knowing that she was doing what few mares could, combined to form a storm in her mind that left little room for such distractions. And as much as she liked Thunderlane, a distraction was all he was at this moment, when all the world seemed to revolve around her act of self-pleasure.
Said act of self-pleasure, however, was starting to take its toll on her back. She licked for as long as she could, feeling the first approach of an orgasm, but eventually the discomfort overcame the pleasure. With an annoyed grunt, she uncurled herself, lying on the floor and taking a moment to catch her breath. She spent that moment savoring the lingering taste of her own juices on her tongue and marveling in the possibilities. She idly rubbed herself with a hoof, just enough to keep the ball rolling, to tide herself over until she could continue.
And continue she would, by Celestia. She merely needed a better position.
She tilted her gaze upwards, looking at the sofa behind her. Gnawing on her lip, she considered it for an instant, then nodded and got to her hooves.
She climbed onto the sofa, turned around, and lay down, such that her head hung off the edge. Once again, she kicked her hind legs over her head, and she felt both her hind hooves land on the floor beneath her, essentially standing. Head now wedged between her thighs, she reached up with her forehooves and pressed her hindquarters toward her face, and was thrilled to find that her lower lips pressed fully against her upper lips with relative ease. There was still a mild discomfort, but it was trivial enough that she barely noticed it.
She planted her lips around her pussy and plunged her tongue inside herself with gusto, worming it inches deep into the moist opening. She felt pleasure wash over her again, picking up close to where she’d left off before. The world around her vanished as she ate herself out, running her tongue over every inch of her insides that it could reach. For the sake of variety, she occasionally pulled out and merely ran her tongue over her vulva, or gave her clit an electrifying suckle. Massaging her cutie marks as she worked, she filled her apartment with muffled moans and gasps.
The pleasure of it all was unlike anything she’d ever experienced, even if the sheer oddness and novelty of the act were unquestionably a contributing factor. It was like normal masturbation, but somehow different. This wasn’t the same as wildly rubbing herself with a hoof, or thrusting a dildo into her vagina as if it was the real thing. In those cases, the focus was on receiving pleasure, and minimal thought was required. But now, giving pleasure was just as important, the giving and receiving at once strangely divorced and blissfully united.
It was like being her own lover—a sort of sensual Möbius strip.
She was getting close now. She could feel it. Like dancing near the edge of a cliff while blindfolded. She brought her forelegs through her hindlegs, wrapping them around her rump and pulling herself in even deeper, hugging her own crotch against her face.
It was building now, bearing down on her like a locomotive. Little twitches rippled across her body. She hummed into herself, every hum rising in animal crescendo. The scent of her arousal wafted right into her face, and her breaths, in turn, danced across her vagina, adding to the pleasure as she continued to eat herself.
Then, unable to put it off any longer, she pulled her hips down. She felt her entire muzzle slide into her vagina, allowing her plunge her tongue deeper than ever before. With one final roll and twist of the slimy muscle, her nervous system exploded with bliss.
Her body, contorted though it was, seized from the massive orgasm. She could feel her pussy spasming and squeezing around her tongue and nose as fluid splattered into her face. She screamed more violently than she ever remembered screaming before, but her body absorbed the sound, the vibrations of her voice even adding fuel to the orgasmic fire. She felt something turn around and build again, only to be slammed by another orgasm. This time, her scream was more like a fillyish shriek.
Even through the chaos, she sensed she wasn’t done. Shifting her grip to her thighs, she withdrew her muzzle and tongue from her opening, taking a moment to breathe with her cheek pressed against her own ass. Then, with a deep breath, she dove in once again, wrapping her lips around her clit and giving it a powerful suck. Almost instantly, a third orgasm wracked her body, and a fourth followed close on its heels. She no longer had the strength to scream, instead holding on for dear life as pleasure, so powerful it nearly frightened her, had its way with her body.
By now, her body was jelly, utterly spent. She suspected she still had a few orgasms in her, but even staying conscious took effort at this point.
So instead, she rolled backwards—body over head—off the couch and onto the floor, falling to her rump and sprawling onto her back. She lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, panting for breath, all her orgasms and the sheer fact of the past fifteen minutes rolling through her mind and body.
And she smiled.
As she started to come down from her high, she licked her juices off her lips, then wiped the rest of her face clean with her sweat towel.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so exhausted. She imagined this was what bear maulings felt like. Only, it was absolutely heavenly. She knew, it that moment, that she would have to do this again, and frequently. Maybe not tonight, though. Her back definitely wasn't happy with her. But she knew that the next time would be easier, an even more so the time after that.
She briefly wondered if she would ever be satisfied with just her hoof or a dildo, after today.
She shrugged it off. That would be tomorrow's problem. For now, she was wanted to take a nap. Getting off the stretching mat seemed like more trouble than it was worth, so she just curled up there in the middle of the floor, gave a cute little yawn, and fell asleep thanking the stars that she’d taken up stretching all those years ago.
Author's Note
Before you judge me, there's a reason I wrote this. Two of them, in fact:
1.) During my time in this fandom, I've encountered a handful of stories involving autofellatio. And yet, I've never seen a story with autocunnilingus. Someone had to do it, right?
2.) I wanted to write a story with no dialogue whatsoever, just to see what it's like. A story with one character seemed like the perfect chance.
I suppose, on those grounds, I can't consider this a failure, even if I feel a little like a sell-out.
